The professional football team I’ve rooted for in the past has just agreed to pay one million six-hundred thousand dollars to Michael Vick, a man convicted of raising dogs for the purpose of torturing and killing those dogs as entertainment.

I love to watch sports, despite certain problems I have with the value system that professional sports represent.  I am now faced with the question if this employment of Michael Vick is something that I ignore,  or is there a line where enough is enough.

There is a line. On one side of the line here is the situation:

I really do love sports as a diversion from the mundane. I try to ignore the unbalanced compensation for these athletes and instead revel in their physical accomplishments. The beauty of sports is that doing a better job results in a victory. And, often that plays out in dramatic, surprising, and entertaining fashion.

The compensation and reward for athletic feats indicates a problem in our society.  It is a free market, and they are entitled to whatever we are willing to pay them.  The unbalanced compensation itself is not the problem. The willingness on our behalf to participate and encourage the imbalance it is the problem.

I believe the reason we are willing to compensate celebrities beyond their value is because we’ve willingly failed to educate ourselves about how a functioning society of millions of people must work over hundreds of years.  On some level, we understand that giving millions of dollars to a physically gifted man while laying teachers off their jobs is wrong, but we don’t fully understand the long-term effects on our collective well-being. We believe that’s just how things work in a democracy, and so far it hasn’t really made all our lives the poorer – just a few people not worth mentioning.  Of course, this was similar to the prevailing social view before the fall of the Roman Empire.

And, being a dutiful citizen-consumer, I’ve been able to ignore the millions of dollars given to athletes and the ways they dispose of that money; the incredible castles they build, the chariots they ride in.  They are just humans like you and me. It’s not their fault.  They got lucky. Good for them, in a way. I see the issue, but feel powerless to effect change. Bring me bread and a circus!

And here is the other side of that line:

Here is a man, Michael Vick, whom we know has done pure evil. We know exactly what he did. It has been proven, and the details we know are evil. If you believe anything in the world can be called evil, this man has done that thing.

In his words, he made “a mistake.”  But, four years of meticulously planned activity, with custom built facilities is more than a mistake.  It is a lifestyle.

It has been said that with his prison term he has paid his debt, and that he deserves a second chance.  I wholeheartedly agree with this. Except, a second chance means he should be able to remain free of prison in a three-bedroom house while he pours concrete for a living, clips coupons, buys the cheap beer, and volunteers at animal shelters.  That’s the same “chance” the rest of us have.  If he is a changed man, he is entitled to work hard as a free man. There is no duty to restore him to a highly-compensated life of protected privilege, there is only the choice to willingly bestow upon him those things if you believe he,  as a member of society, deserves better compensation than the average teacher, nurse, or physical therapist.

So, for the owners and management of the Philadelphia Eagles to willingly give the man one million six hundred thousand dollars is an unequivocal statement. It is a statement that they believe there is nothing they would not ignore in their selfish pursuits for enrichment. There is no value they will not willingly undermine in an attempt to get even richer than they already are.

I’m following the “national debate” on what this all means with a morbid resignation.   No one understands the deeper level of how uneducated we are. The most vocal opinions are often the least educated.  Brains are getting a workout only as far as they can be used to craft sharper attacks on the opposite viewpoint.  Any nuanced view gets obliterated, as we all dutifully take opposite positions, ignoring the underlying issues and problems that are too shockingly intractable to acknowledge. In this way, it is exactly like politics.

As I sat down to write about this, I wondered why I would even bother.  But, then I heard anecdotes about families selling their Eagles season tickets. I heard a report of fans in tears at the Eagles stadium.  Could it be that this line exists for others too? I wondered what it would be like if the public finally rose up and refused to continue to support “their team” no matter what indecency is promoted by that organization?  Could this be a “teachable moment” that future humans can look back at in pride and say, “Enough was enough.”?

Well, not likely. But, maybe.

I can’t support this sports team after their decision to employ Michael Vick.

Forty-one days later, my phone rings as I step off a Bart train, Fruitvale station. It’s the default ringtone. I’ve never changed it.

Me: Hello this is Michael.
Female Voice: Hello this is Fujicolor Labs
Me: Yes?
Female Voice: We do processing for Rite-Aid
Me: Yes??
Female Voice: We have some pictures here. Can you identify them?
Me: Yes! They were black and white. C-41. Uhh, I think there was a car?
Female Voice: A Volkswagen?
Me: Yes!
Female Voice: A chihuahua? A door? A coffeemaker?
Me: Yes! Yes! That’s them.
Female Voice: Okay then. We’ll get those right out.
Me: You’ll send them to the store?
Female Voice: Yes, that’s right.
Me: Do you have an ETA?
Female Voice: A what?
Me: Do you know about when they’ll be there?
Female Voice: Wednesday or Thursday.
Me: Thanks!
Female Voice: No problem.

Song of the day: “Never too Late” – Journey

The sun is setting in Los Angeles. I’m on the 101 with the window rolled down and I’m cranking the stereo. A song that comes on the radio that absolutely: Blows. My. Mind. But, before I tell you what it is, you’ll need to know some background.

Earlier this morning, I see a post on Craigslist:

FILM!!! MEDIUM FORMAT 120 & 220 KODAK… $1 – (LOS ANGELES)

Date: 2008-12-22, 11:54AM PST

I HAVE A TON OF KODAK FILM THAT GETS LEFT OVER FROM MY PHOTO SHOOTS THROUGH OUT THE WEEK!!! I SELL IT FOR 1.25$ A ROLL.UNLESS YOU BUY 20+ROLLS ITS ONLY 1.00$ EACH!!! I CAN MAKE GREAT DEALS PLEASE CALL #(323)XXX-XXXX

Nice. I appreciate an ALL CAPS post like that, screaming a great deal at me. However, my beloved Mamiya 645E, she is broken. Of course she is. I get a fab new lens for this rad medium-format magicmaker and now, though I’ve been trying for weeks and replaced the battery, it won’t meter. Well it will meter. In dusky twilight: f4 at ASA 160? 1/15th of a second. Pitch black in my closet? 1/15th of a second. Shooting a solar flare? 1/15th of a second. Everything I throw at it says 1/15th second. That ain’t right. So, it’s a good thing I’m getting better at hand metering with my trusty L-208. But, still I’m bummed. The guy who sold me the lens did so under promise that I’d shoot like crazy. I’ve not done so, and I feel very guilty. He even threw in his lucky lens cap! I better start figuring out where I am gonna get this serviced.

Excerpt from a user review of the Mamiya 645E that helped convince me to buy it in the first place, just a few short months ago:

“I do all of my shooting from a tripod and don’t mind advancing roll film via the standard hand crank (yes folks film advance is manual, as is focusing and setting aperture)” – outdoorscenics.

Now, flash back to few weeks ago:

I just got the new 55mm lens for the Mamiya! It’s a wide beauty; I can scarcely be more excited. First, I have a love for good wide-angle photos. Barely less significant is that the lens came from a fantastic photographer and doubtlessly has scads of phojo (photo mojo) in it. I fit the lens to the body, make sure the A/M lever is set to ‘M’ since it’s a manual focus camera and off I go.

And, back to this afternoon:

Hmm, there’s the Mamiya user manual on my shelf. I wonder if it has anything useful about my light meter problem.

Excerpt from the Mamiya 645 manual:

Doh! I assumed from my EOS brainwashing what A meant. And, M meant. Ahhh! Sometimes you think you know, but you don’t know at all. RTFM! And now, the Mamiya, she works! I “fixed” her. Clever boy.

So, I call the guy in the Craigslist ad. I set up the meet in Silverlake. I go down and I pick up fifty-eight loose rolls of medium format Kodak film of all various awesomeness for fifty bucks. Less than a buck a roll. Now, I’m set for a good long while. I have no more excuses.

And, I’m driving back with my booty in a lightproof bag. I’m on the 101, the sun is going down in Los Angeles and everything is golden honey. Preset Number One is the bluegrass station and they kick into a down home Kentucky version of Silent Night: No sir! I am done with Christmas music. I hit up Preset Number Two (the seventies station) and what’s just starting?

This song.

Life’s a trip.

I love to read self-improvement blogs. They’re always filled with great insights and information that completely misses the point, written by people who exult in telling you how this stuff works without actually understanding why. They didn’t get where they are by “tackling the tough tasks first” or “putting a to-do list next to the phone to complete tasks while on hold.” The authors of such advice have already mastered the real question: How to care.

On procrastination:

Oddly enough, I think the film Grosse Pointe Blank is partly responsible for how easily I slip into procrastination. Martin Blank has a target to assassinate that he continually puts off while pursuing Debbie, his love-interest. After avoiding the task again and again, he finally sits down to do it, and as he opens the dossier he says to himself, “You’re a handsome devil. What’s your name?” That line is a subtle recall to an earlier scene where he visits his Alzheimeric mother, who forgets who he is. John Cusack’s delivery of writer Tom Jankiewicz’s brilliant line so completely characterizes the moment of complete bottom-rung despair that is often the true spur to action. When things get so bad that taking care of business is the only bearable option left, that’s when some of us get things done. No, it ain’t healthy or a recipe for success, but Cusack made it so freakin’ cool.  So, when I reach that point, if you listen closely you’ll hear me say “You’re a handsome devil. What’s your name?”

Play this song right now: “Start Today” – Gorilla Biscuits

Play this “We Gotta Get Out Of This Place” – The Animals

Every click of the shutter is a moment shared between three people: The subject, the photographer, and ultimately the viewer. Every party in this exchange must give up something. Is the transaction mutually beneficial? Should it be? I suspect that every deal has a winner and a loser. Yes, every deal. In most cases, if you’re on the wrong end, it’s just a matter of how you can mitigate your loss, or use that loss to balance a strength in some other deal so that you come out ahead in the long run. The best deals do end up being mutually beneficial over time.

I think that the common photographic interaction is unfairly balanced in favor of the photographer. Because of this, I need to be prepared to sacrifice more. Only then will there be a balanced and harmonious end result.

And, I need to develop this thought a bit more.

Play: “Wishing (If I Had A Photograph Of You)” – Flock of Seagulls

As strange things go, this is me: a month ago I never would have considered myself a candidate to get into film photography. I was a digital guy for all the reasons digital cameras make sense. Film is tricky, unwieldy, expensive, slow, and requires skill I probably don’t have.

But, a few weeks ago I read up on this classic type of camera called a “rangefinder” and it sounded pretty neat. I read of some enthusiastic accounts by fans of the camera, and decided on a whim to set up a craigslist alert for one specific model – this Canon QL17 “Canonet” .. the budget rangefinder that compares to deluxe Leica cameras ten times its price. I don’t know why I did it, the idea of film still seemed ludicrous to me. The Canonet seemed to go for $40 to $140 bucks depending. At the very least, I thought, if I found a cheapo one, it would be something cool to take pictures of if not with.

“I’ve Got A Miniature Secret Camera” – Peter Murphy

But, not a week in, an ad came down the feed for a Canonet right in my neighborhood — well, the Valley anyway. The price? $50 with case and flash. So on an overcast Saturday morning, I went out to an Encino hair salon — the seller’s place of business — to check it out. As I understood it, the camera had been inherited after a recent passing in the seller’s family. It was screwed into its case and looked like it hadn’t been removed in 30 years. It was gorgeous. I was sold. I got myself an old camera.

Once, I had it, I was still unsure what the heck I was doing. I drove to a drugstore to try to find some film. It was cloudy. I looked through the viewfinder, and: Whoa! The act of focusing a rangefinder camera is an amazing enlightenment. The viewfinder presents the scene in front of you, and a ghostly superimposed version. You slide a lever back and forth and watch as the two versions of the scene merge into one. It’s a transcendent moment of satori.

“Focus On Sight“  Thievery Corporation

So over the next few days, I took pictures. I had no idea if the camera was working. I was using a rule-of-thumb method of guessing exposure called “Sunny 16” — for there is not much automatic about this camera. I went through that roll of film. A film-nut friend recommended I try the cheap Kroeger-branded film at Ralph’s, for it is actually an Italian film notorious for a antique look that some people hate and some love. I shot three rolls of that — still not even knowing if the thing worked. I was hooked. The rangefinder shows a scene in the viewfinder and lets you focus even with the cap on. of course, I kept clicking pics with the cap on. Newbie! I even had a little micro-adventure when I was out taking photos in Santa Monica. I left the cap on when I tried to take a photo of a mysterious photographer.

Then, I had to get it developed. Really? What year is this? Who even does that now? I found a lab near work. I rolled in and said, “I’m here to drop off film. I have never done this before!*” The proprietor was amused and then helpful. I had to wait a day to get the pics back. A day! I still was convinced the camera wasn’t even taking pictures. See with a rangefinder camera there is no “mirror slap” — that’s the telltale mechanical event in a common single-lens reflex (SLR) camera, the reflex! — when you trip the shutter. Very little happens to reassure you, when you use this camera. Every press of the shutter is a lottery ticket into the photographic future. I hoped I’d be lucky.

“Photograph” – The Verve Pipe

But, the next day came. I had been told they’d be ready at 2:30. I called the lab at noon hoping my photos would be early. Nope! “There are no shortcuts! Get used to it,” I told myself.

Fine, enough anecdote! The pictures came back. Some were surprisingly good, even great in my eyes. Some examples? Sure. Even some pictures I was positive that I took behind the lens cap miraculously really happened. very strange. Strange and wonderful, I guess. At least it distracted me from everything else for a few moments.

“Pictures To Prove It” – Mighty Mighty Bosstones

* In actuality I had dropped off film dozens of times when I was a kid — even when i took photography in high school with a film SLR. But that was clearly some other universe. I remember no details.

Music to read this post by: “The Thumb” – Wes Montgomery (Jazz)

Nobody ever signed my cast. It’s not that I’m not a popular fellow. Well, I’ve always been unpopular, yes.  But, in this matter I’ve just never broken a bone in my body. Sometimes, I’m ashamed of this. I wonder if I haven’t tried hard enough. Rationally, I should see it as great fortune. I’m sure breaking a bone, even cracking a rib, is no picnic. And, at this point, since I’m paying, it would even be a really annoying expense. But, breaking a bone has a certain sex appeal.

Today, when I was playing basketball on my lunch hour and took a screamer to my left thumb five minutes into the game, none of this ran through my head. I was just pissed that I’d hurt myself. It was at the very least well and truly jammed. It hurt, it looked perhaps a hair crooked, it swelled like a sausage in mere seconds. But, it was my left, as in non-shooting, hand. I figured I’d keep playing and it would loosen up. Just a bruise, surely! I’m pretty sure no one else even noticed.

Of course, being the worst player on the court, no one would keep on noticing. I loped around and waved my hands and had actually a fun time of it. During stoppages, I’d squeeze my thumb. It felt sore and swollen. Never having broken a bone myself, I didn’t know what that even felt like. The possibility that it was dislocated crossed my mind. Indeed, I had no idea what that felt like either. I tried pulling it. I mean, that’s what I’ve seen in movies! Just snap it back in! It’s supposed to hurt like hell. I wasn’t getting any of that vibe, though.

I finished that game and a couple more. Fun times, for me. For my teammates, probably less fun. Guys from work. Team-building!

Got back to the office, waited for the shower. I kept holding my hands up to compare the angle of my hurt thumb to my good — well, average I hope — thumb.  Was it straight? I just didn’t know! There was definitely some strange zig-zag along the joint. There was one cord that had transformed into an electric shock button. I started recalling vague stories of untreated dislocations leading to hands deformed for life! I didn’t care how it looked, but I wanted it to at least work again.

Two years ago I sprained my ankle. Very seriously sprained. Stepping in a pothole! I never got it looked at. It swelled up like a ripe gourd. It was supremely painful. And, I just gutted through it. I wrapped it, I hobbled around. I most certainly should have been on  a crutch for a few days. I was stubborn, and honestly I had no idea how to get it checked out.

I’ve gone to the emergency room three times in my life. Never of my own volition. The first time was a sprained finger in grade school. My parents took me and all I remember was getting my sprained finger caught in the electric car window on the way out of the hospital. The second time was a few years back when I was jumped by a couple guys who beat me senseless for my bike. A cop took me to the emergency room fearing a fractured eye socket, but they found nothing so bad. The third time when I was hit by a bus and I had severe internal bleeding. All I remember of that time was a lot of swearing. Aside from the kid thing those seemed, excuse me, like legitimate emergencies. A sprained ankle? I couldn’t bring myself to call that an emergency.

But, this thumb worried me. And, I’m slowly getting older and perhaps wiser. After consulting with Sarah, I decided to pursue “Urgent Care.” I begged out of work early, still concealing my thumb from my coworker teammates. I’m not sure why I didn’t show them my mangled thumb. I guess  feared making a big deal about it if it turned out to be a deep bruise, or something.

Called my insurance to figure out the most appropriate urgent care facility to go to. After some baffling rigmarole where I had to deny getting shot with a nail gun (really), I finally reached someone to direct me. Except, my choices from this fellow were: Doctor or hospital? No, I’m looking for an “urgent care facility.” A brief pause then: Doctor or hospital? Hospital it was! Insurance companies are so great. They really care, and everything.

I ventured into the UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica. I thought it was the emergency room, but there was just a bored and bearded nurse in sanitary green scrubs and eerily matching sanitary green Crocs. I sheepishly confessed I was worried about my thumb, it might be broken, was this the right place for that level of injury? He replied, This is an emergency room! Right, I thought, but should I even be there? Another of life’s indescribable pauses, where my insecurity hung in the air like a defective pinata. There was a stack of sign-in sheets and a sign: Please fill out and wait! I got my name down before he told me no, he’d just type it in now. Yeah, he was bored.

As I took my seat to wait, someone else came in. He had hurt his hand! He needed to get it checked out! How was he so confident about it? It was eerie, but I finally had my validation. A brief moment in time where I was not in the wrong place.

I was called almost immediately. Not so many stabbings, shootings, car wrecks in sunny Santa Monica. Right? New nurse asks me: Pain on a scale of one to ten? A three. The doc poked and prodded. Yes, it’s dislocated. My breath caught, I was excited! He could poke me with some painkillers, or just try to pop it back in right there.

Well, Doc. Let’s pop it back in.

He gets a good grip. Deep breath, he commands. A yank. Nothing, but then pain. He turns to the side to get better leverage. For an instant, I consider the possibility that I have statistical outliers for tendons.

A yank! And, a definite click, like well-used Lego bricks snapping into place. And then, slow to the party, my eyes bulge.

A new kind of pain.

As my doc makes a note, yet a third nurse eager to divine my status in case she is needed inexplicably asks me, Pain on a scale of one to ten?

Calmly — calmly! — I say, right about now it’s an eight.

And, I was perversely fascinated and content with the pain. I am by no measure a masochist. This experience was not in that space at all. I knew millions had felt this. There was no danger. This was life! Also, I was psyched how this is how it’s been done for thousands of years. This was doctorin’ that a classicist could appreciate. Caesar probably had a dislocated thumb yanked out by one of his generals at some point. Wild Bill must’ve had a dislocated thumb. Just yank ‘er back in, doc!  No digital machines needed. No cutting-edge technology. At a point in my life when so little is real, this was like a cool splash of truth. After a just-in-case x-ray and a basic splint, I was done. Still never broken a bone, but this was pretty cool.

Of course, there was still a $100 emergency room co-pay. And, still no cast for all my friends to sign. Not like they would, anyway.